


Sins and Tragedies

by coffeeandcas



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt Dean, M/M, Priest Castiel, Prompt Fill, Religion, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9813701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: Castiel is a jaded priest who is falling out of love with his faith. He always thought he was doing God’s work, but latterly he has questions. Doubts.One wintry evening, a young man comes to confession and the pained words that spill from him change something deep within Castiel. A few days later, he runs into that same young man at a nondescript bar and learns his name: Dean Winchester.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt I was sent on tumblr:
> 
> 'Priest!Cas meets Incubi!Dean in the confessional and listens to his many, many sins and then a couple days later Cas goes to a bar and runs into him there'
> 
> I really struggled writing Incubi!Dean, so had to change it up a little and in this he's just a mere mortal, but all the same I hope I did it justice! 
> 
> (Rating is primarily for the use of bad language.)

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The voice is deep and gravelly, and loaded already with a myriad of emotions. Castiel has learned over the years that you can tell a lot from a person’s voice, and the low honeyed tone conjures up images of tanned skin, leather, and golden-amber whiskey. Castiel adjusts himself in his chair and waits, his hands clasped in his lap patiently.

“It has been…well, a damn long time since my last confession. And I guess I'm a little rusty.” The man huffs out a sardonic laugh, so quietly that Castiel barely hears him, and with the laugh comes an aura of intense sadness, one that permeates Castiel’s skin right through to the bone and he shivers involuntarily. It doesn't help that the church is absolutely freezing tonight; the sun went down hours ago, replaced by a sudden flurry of snow and the bitter wind had seeped in through the gaps under the doors and around the windows. Castiel has lit what felt like a thousand pillar candles through the church, in some meagre attempt at generating warmth, but it had failed miserably. He had tried prayer, to see if he could distract himself from the icy cold, but all he achieved was aching knees and questions without answers. Questions which were slowly opening the doors to doubt. The young man in the confessional has been silent for a moment, and Castiel shakes himself minutely. He’s supposed to be listening, not focusing on his own troubles.

“So, Father, I suppose this is the part where I tell you my sins, right? How long have you got?” There's that little self-deprecating laugh again, but Castiel remains quiet. It's not his place to speak yet.

“I've done…some bad things. In my time. And I always convinced myself that it was for the greater good, but these days I'm just not so sure.” The young man exhales heavily, clearly working himself up to say what he needs to. “I've hurt people. People I loved, people I didn't love, people I didn't know enough to love…and some people I really hated, people who deserved to di- to be hurt.” The young man corrects himself hastily and Castiel’s heart pounds at the realisation of what he was about to say. His hand twitches of its own accord, wanting to rip the privacy screen back and clap his eyes on the young man clearly going through a myriad of difficult situations.

“I run away from everything.” A sharp, deep exhale followed these words, and Castiel felt relief wash off the man in a crushing wave, as though the words have been eating him alive for years and he’s finally purged himself of them. “I run away from people who could make me happy, I run away from tough conversations, and I run away because…I’m not strong enough to handle it all. And I know that hitting the damn booze every time things go haywire isn’t the right thing to do, but it just sorta happens and I can’t control it. So there’s a couple of sins for you to get working on. But I have plenty more where they came from.” A dark, gruff, humourless laugh chases the words. “I’m not sure exactly what kind of thing I’m supposed to confess, if I’m brutally honest. I haven’t been in a church for a long time, at least not to better myself or ask for help. I have…other friends who provide help when I need it, and sometimes that help feels close to divine intervention but hey, nothing beats a little soul-searching in the true house of God, right?”

Castiel can’t argue that. He also can’t argue against the twinge in his chest as the young man’s voice cracks over certain words, and the soft sniffles that suggest tears are on their way, if he isn’t crying already. It seems as though it’s taken a great effort for him to come here today, and Castiel wants to reach out to him in any way he can. He’s leaning forward in his chair, his head bowed a little and gaze focused on his clasped fingers, listening closely.

“And I guess they always say you turn to God in times of crisis, and if this isn't one then damned if I know what is. Sam…my brother…he needs help, and I hoped if I could somehow do penance for the things I've done, then maybe God would look kindly on him. I'm not asking for anything for myself. It's all for Sam and…I just hope God knows that. I just want him to be saved. It doesn't matter about me. Just Sam.”

“You don't think you deserve to be saved?”

These are the first words Castiel has spoken, and he hears the young man draw in a sharp, shocked breath, which is followed up by a pregnant silence. For a second, Castiel thinks he’s about to hear the door open and close and footsteps on the stone floor of the church as the young man makes a swift exit. He’s clearly a flight risk based on his comments about running away, and Castiel is aware he should tread carefully.

“God loves you as well, not just your brother. He wants your happiness as well. Your self-sacrifice is admirable, but misplaced. How can you hope to help someone else if you haven’t first helped yourself? Our Lord can show you the way.” The words, although said with his deepest, most reassuring tone, feel hollow to Castiel. He wants to say other things.

“How do you know? What makes you think you really understand what God wants for me? What his direction is? And if it's even the right thing for me?” The young man’s voice is wracked with despair, and Castiel is sure he has his head in his hands. His voice is muffled and close to tears.

“Because it comes from Heaven. That makes it just.” Castiel’s words surprise him, and he listens for the other man’s response. Nothing for a while, a long, long while, and never before has Castiel wanted to open the screen more and see the face of the person baring their soul to him. He feels strangely drawn to this person, this sad, aching human who is entrusting him with the deepest troubles of his existence, and normally Castiel would just listen and provide words of comfort and guidance, but tonight…something feels different. Something is pulling him in, the beginnings of what could be a profound bond if they were face-to-face and interacting under normal circumstances, and he’s powerless to stop it.

The young man’s muffled, slightly choked snort brings him back to the moment. It does sound like he’s crying now, and Castiel’s heart aches.

“You can’t say that shit, man. You don’t know what I’ve done. I’m not a good person.”

“I fail to see how that can possibly be true.”

“Oh? How’d you figure that?”

“You’re here, for a start. You want to change, you want to look back on the things you’ve done and absolve yourself of your guilt. That’s the first step to becoming the person God intends for you to be.”

It must be the wrong thing to say: another snort, this time one of derision.

“I guess I’m not good enough for our Lord the way I am, huh? I thought He was all about unconditional love, but I guess I got my wires crossed.”

Castiel is silent, thinking deeply. He had worded it wrong, no wonder it had been taken incorrectly. He knows God lofves humanity, he just knows it in his heart. Despite all his doubts, fears, and the creeping knowledge that he doesn’t belong in the church any more, that is one thing he will never doubt.

“God loves you, that much I can tell you. In spite of your sins, he loves you. He loves you all the more for being here, confessing your sins to me and seeking penance. He-“

“It's not just sins. My whole goddamn life is a fucking tragedy.”

There's an extended, loaded pause. Castiel doesn't react well to profanity, and he has to collect himself before forming a response. He decides against berating the young man for cursing; it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. This isn’t a normal confession, so his usual responses don’t really fit. They wouldn’t be met well. He needs to use his own words to provide reassurance, use the voice that lives deep within him and lies dormant, conceding to his faith and persona as Castiel the Priest, allowing him to play his role. The voice which doubts and questions and sees the loopholes in the Bible and the supposed Word of God. This is the voice he needs to use to comfort this broken young man. He considers his words for so long that the young man speaks again before he gets a chance to respond.

“So what does our Lord want me to do? How can I redeem myself, so that he will drag his thumb out of his ass and help me for once? Because I really need it, man, I’ll do anything. Anything…” His voice cracks on the last word and is replaced by a small whine and a shaking inhale.

“Forgive yourself.”

Castiel doesn’t realise he’s spoken for a moment. Silence is his only response, and he takes advantage of it and continues.

“Forgive yourself for what you’ve done in the past. I don’t know the details, but I do know it’s eating you alive. And you cannot possibly begin to help your brother if you can’t allow yourself to feel at peace. You don’t need God’s forgiveness; you need your own. God can only guide you; he cannot intervene. So if that guidance isn’t enough to heal your brother then you need the strength from within yourself to help him. What is he suffering from?”

It takes a couple of tries, but the young man answers in cracked, guarded tones. “Hallucinations. He’s in a hospital a few hours from here, I’m on my way to him. I was just passing through, stopped for the night and thought…thought this place could bring me something I need. But if God won’t intervene then, well, what can I say?” A bitter, broken little laugh. “I guess this was pointless.”

“Pointless? I haven’t helped you at all?”

“No.” Silence, and Castiel can see his own breath in front of him, puffing out in a small cloud. The temperature has dropped another degree or two. “Yes. Perhaps. I think I’m beyond help.” He exhales, and Castiel can see him shifting behind the privacy screen. “I just need to…I need to save Sam, dammit-“ Tears twist his voice into a high-pitched whine and he cuts himself off, breathing deeply to try and gather himself up. “I can’t…I can’t be alone. I don’t know how. He’s my brother; I need him…”

“You’re never alone.” Castiel murmurs this quietly, his chest aching and his eyes burning for this man, who he can hear sobbing quietly just inches away from him. He wants so badly to reach out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, console him with more than just empty words. “God is with you…”

“I just don’t think he is.”

The resignation, the finality in his tone chills Castiel - and for a poignant reason. It’s the same thought that has been circling his mind for a long time now, and hearing it said out loud is stirring something within him. Something he knows is going to grow and grow until he can’t ignore it any more. The young man exhales, a familiar sound now, and seems to have himself under control enough to speak again.

“Are we done here?”

Castiel pauses for a moment, collecting himself and blinking away tears he didn’t realise were tricking down his cheeks, then utters the closing words ‘Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,’ and waits for the reply. The silence between them stretches on until Castiel wonders if the man has left without him noticing. Just as that thought crosses his mind, he hears movement; the door to the confessional opens and closes again with a terrible, resigned finality. Castiel is left alone, aching, with his thoughts.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to make this into 3 chapters instead of 2; I'm having a bit too much fun with these boys and their angst.

Castiel doesn't imbibe alcohol. He has never seen the attraction to such a loss of control, but he can understand the escapism it can provide. He doesn't condone it, but he can see why people turn to it to feel happy, to rid themselves of their insecurities, or to drown their sorrows. Plus, it truly tastes awful.

  
He doesn't go to the bar to drink. He goes to people watch. He finds humanity as a whole fascinating, and has spent most of his life trying to work out where he fits in, to find his place and to do what he can to help those in need around him. He finds that he learns the most when people drop their inhibitions and lower their boundaries, and normally alcohol fuels this behaviour. He doesn’t eavesdrop, he doesn’t spy on people, he isn’t like that. He just watches occasionally. It’s like research. Sort of.

  
He pushes open the door to his usual haunt, a quiet and dim bar on the corner of an intersection, and rubs his hands together to ward off the cold. A wall of warmth envelops him as he walks in, and the door closes behind him with a satisfying clunk; he shakes snow from his shoulders and hair and shrugs his jacket off. The scarf stays on: he’s not quite warm enough to shed that yet. There are a few patrons in the bar, crowded round tables or playing pool, a few men with glasses of amber liquid propping up the bar and a gaggle of women wearing glittering pink tiaras who are clearly out for a birthday celebration. The air is thick with the smell of perfume and spilled beer, and Castiel signals to the bartender who approaches him with a familiar smile.

  
“Evening, Father. The usual?”

  
“Yes, please. Thank you, Ellen.”

  
He watches as she grabs a bottle of soda water and mixes it with lime then slides it across the bar to him, flinging a bar towel over her shoulder as she does so. He likes Ellen: she's down-to-earth, warm, and likes to mother everyone he crosses her path. Castiel feels comfortable in her presence, and he sips his drink and turns to survey the bar again. Next to him is an old guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and dark-framed glasses, talking to someone young enough to be his daughter. The girl laughs flirtatiously at something he says, and runs a hand down his arm. Hmm. Definitely not daughter.

  
Castiel nurses his drink for a while, thinking deeply. His encounter in the confessional just a few days ago had had a profound effect on him, and he hasn't been himself since. The doubts that have been swirling in his mind about his place in the church have solidified into something almost tangible. He doesn't belong. He hasn't belonged for a while, he just hasn't really realised it. But now, hearing the confession of a young man at the end of his tether and in true desperation has brought home to him a sense that he isn't truly helping people the way he wants to. He isn't getting his hands dirty. He passes on advice and guidance, loans the odd shoulder to cry on, but it all stops there. He wants more. He knows he has more to give.

  
The door opens behind him, bringing with it a chill and a few stray flakes of snow, before slamming shut again and a person materialises at Castiel’s side, throwing himself onto a bar stool and waving to get Ellen’s attention. Castiel doesn't turn to look at him right away; he doesn't want to appear to be staring. He shivers a little, pulling his scarf tighter around him. He really does miss the mild, balmy summers he’s become to accustomed to. Winter in the city is never kind.

  
“Double Jack, neat, thanks sweetheart.”

  
Castiel stiffens; he knows that voice. He watches a dark glower cross Ellen’s face at the endearment, and she slams the bottle down on the bar with more force than she likely intended. The stranger slides his money to her in return and she huffs off, indignant. Castiel sips his drink and tries very hard not to turn to get a first glimpse of the stranger. That voice…so familiar…

  
“Jeez. What crawled up her ass and died?”

  
Finally, with a sinking feeling of trepidation as he realises exactly why the voice is so familiar, Castiel turns to look at the young man next to him. It takes him a second to properly focus, because his first reaction is entirely inappropriate: holy shit. The guy is effortlessly, devastatingly handsome, and Castiel has to swallow a few times to clear his dry mouth. This cannot be the same guy who came to the confessional just three days ago; it cannot be. For one thing, the guy had said he was just passing through. And for another…wow. Castiel hasn’t found himself this lost for words - or coherent thought - for a very long time. He realises he hasn’t responded at all to what had been said to him, that in fact he’s just sitting staring vacantly at the beautiful human being sitting next to him and, embarrassingly, that his mouth is hanging open a little. He closes it with a snap, and lends a casual shrug in response.

  
“She’s not overly keen on pet names from strangers. She finds it patronising.”

  
The young man shrugs, not turning to look at Castiel, and sips his drink. “Wasn’t meant to be.”

  
And that gruff sentence confirms it. It's him, it absolutely, definitely is him. The man who has shaken Castiel’s world without even realising. The man who has encompassed the priest’s every thought since he left the confessional, and who has made him question everything he is. If him turning up in the bar Castiel frequents isn't some warped brand of divine intervention, he really isn't sure what is. Castiel studies him properly, trying valiantly not to look like he’s staring. Dirty blonde, artfully-styled hair, tanned skin, a fine layer of stubble, and long, pretty eyelashes. He’s well-built, his body encased in faded denim jeans and a leather jacket which Castiel expects does little to keep out the cold. It’s been eons since Castiel even looked at another man, let alone allowed himself to appreciate their beauty: he’s spent a long time telling himself that he doesn’t need the contact of another person to keep him happy. He has God, the church and his faith, what else could he possibly need?  
Him… the word flashes through his mind, and Castiel blushes in spite of himself. Of course, the stranger chooses that moment to turn to give him a cool once-over. Noting the flush on the priest’s cheeks, he frowns a little.

  
“You OK, buddy?”

  
“Yes. Yes, thank you.” Castiel croaks embarrassingly, clearing his throat and signalling Ellen for another drink. She provides it almost instantaneously, sending a sweet smile in his direction and a glower at the stranger.

  
“So, where’s good to go around here?”

  
“For what?”

  
“A good time. Sex, booze, rock and roll. A little escapism. Take your pick.”

  
“I'm not really sure.” Castiel stares down into his drink, embarrassed again. “I don't tend to go much further than here. Creature of habit.” He's apologetic, excusing his lack of knowledge of entertaining establishments and with it feeling like the dullest person to walk the Earth.

  
“I see.” Says the stranger, with a tone implying that he did not, at all, see. He sips his beer in silence for a while then, with a sigh that indicates a lot of effort on his part, he turns to Castiel and extends a hand.

  
“I’m Dean.” His voice is like melting honey and Castiel holds back a shiver. He takes Dean’s outstretched hand, finding his skin to just as warm and calloused as he had thought it would be. “Dean Winchester.”

  
“Castiel Novak.”

  
Their eyes finally meet properly and Castiel has to hold in yet another inappropriate intake of breath. Dean’s eyes are a devastatingly beautiful shade of forest green, with little flecks around the irises, and they're glittering in the dim lights of the bar. Castiel knows that if he stares too long he will get lost in their beauty, so it's with a loaded effort that he drags his gaze back to the bar, back to his drink which suddenly seems as bland and uninteresting as he feels.

  
“So, Castiel. Interesting name, by the way. What do you do for fun around here, if it's not the aforementioned sex, drink, and iniquity?” Dean asks as though he doesn't really want to know the answer, as though he's bored and just passing the time by talking to Castiel, and it's not the most pleasant of feelings. This, Castiel remembers bitterly, is partly why he took his vow of chastity. Finding a partner had been too difficult for him, the consistent rejection had hurt too much. He had turned to God out of desperation and sadness, and found himself battling the same feelings years on - only this time he could put a name to the reason behind it all: inadequacy. He cuts off that train of thought quickly, realising that Dean is staring expectantly at him, waiting for an answer to his question.

  
“I read. Visit museums and art galleries. I write poetry sometimes.” He shrugs. “All very tame, I suppose.”

  
“Well, sounds like you're a hop, skip and a jump above a hick like me.”

Dean’s voice is thick with sarcasm and he smirks as he downs his beer, snapping his fingers at Ellen for another. Castiel simultaneously wants to wring his neck for his rudeness, and kiss that edible smirk from his face. He quashes those feelings as best he can: they're unbecoming for a man of his faith - or so he's told. At night however, alone, he tells himself very different things indeed.

  
“I wouldn't say that. You're…I'm sure you have a lot to give, Dean. Don't put yourself down.”

  
“Oh, you're sure of that, are you? Really? How's that?” The corner of Dean’s mouth turns up in a nasty, self-loathing smirk, one which hurts Castiel’s heart in the same way the overload of emotion from the young man - from Dean - in the confessional had done. Now that he's met Dean properly, Castiel can see how much pain he's really holding in, and that the sarcasm and the smirking is an elaborately formed mask to keep it all away from the public view. He wishes Dean could get a reprieve from all of it, just for a while.

  
“You just…” Castiel knows he has to step carefully. An edge has appeared in Dean, a latent anger below the surface, and Castiel knows he's close to hitting raw nerves. The sensible part of his mind, the one that follows his faith and keeps him in line, shouts out at him to retreat, to talk about the weather or something and scarper as quickly as possible from this tenuous situation that holds so much potential to go bad. But that part of him gets ignored so often these days that it doesn't stand a chance against the part that says ‘take that caution, and throw it headfirst into that approaching storm’. “I can see it in you. I can feel it. You're a good person, Dean. I want…” Castiel’s hand comes up onto the bar, inches from Dean's, and the younger man blinks at it in confusion. “I want you to know that.”

  
Dean snorts derisively and sips his beer, dragging his gaze from Castiel’s splayed hand after a long moment. “So what is it that you do that makes you so holier-than-thou that you can tell me shit like that? Makes you think you have all the answers about me?”

  
Castiel considers. Should he tell Dean what his calling is? Where he spends his time? Would Dean make the connection that it was he who heard his confession all those days ago? He shouldn't, he absolutely should not. It could cause ructions, make Dean so furious that he either lashes out at Castiel or just turns and leaves. Neither would be productive solutions, and neither would give Castiel what he wants so badly in that moment: more time in Dean’s presence. He should lie. He should…

Castiel gives in. He throws caution to the wind and reaches up to unwind his scarf just enough to expose the white clerical collar and Dean’s brow creases for a second. The moment realisation hits him is painfully evident: his face snaps in shock and his mouth forms a little ‘o’ of surprise. His eyebrows raise so much they almost disappear into his hairline, then descend again into a grimace.

  
“Well, doesn't that fucking fit. And let me guess, you're the one I spilled my soul out to in the confessional the other day, correct?” Dean shakes his head and takes a deep swallow from his beer, closing his eyes for a second when Castiel fails to respond. “Fuckin’-A.”

  
Castiel waits for the storm. Waits for the anger, but it doesn't come. Instead, Dean seems to sag in on himself a little, gripping his bottle tighter and setting his jaw more firmly. Steeling himself, Castiel realises, against a judgement he thinks is coming. So he says the only thing that comes into his head at that moment in time:

  
“How is your brother, Dean?"

  
“He…fuck, isn’t this against your rules, or something? Your code of priesthood or whatever? What happens in confession stays in confession?” Dean looks flabbergasted, afforded even, that Castiel would ask something so brazen. His green eyes widen then narrow, and he regards the priest critically, making Castiel squirm and blush - yet again.

  
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right, I’m so sorry. I should never have…Dean, I apologise.” Flustered, Castiel falls over himself in his need to apologise. It is against their rules, and he just overstepped a mark by, well, a good mile or two. Colour rushes back into his face and he shifts on his stool, contemplating leaving.

  
“Forget it, man, it's fine.” Dean’s demeanour shifts again, back to almost dry sardonicism, downs a shot that Castiel hadn't noticed him ordering. “Sammy’s away with the goddamn fairies, and before you ask yes that's why I haven't quite got to him yet. Seeing him in that state is…going to be hard, and I needed a few days to prepare myself. Seek assistance from the divine.” Dean’s a little drunk now, which explains his mood, and waves his glass in the air towards where they both supposed God would be. “Great load of good it did me. Got me fuckin’ nowhere, got me fuckin’ nothing.”

  
“It got you me,” Castiel says stupidly, and drops his head into his hands to groan silently at his own idiocy. What the hell was that? Why wasn't his brain in control of his mouth?

  
When he dares to look up again, cheeks flaming, and peers through his fingers, Dean is staring at him with the strangest look in his eyes. His bottle is halfway to his lips, and he looks deep in some sort of though, appraising Castiel trough those brilliant green eyes. Castiel feels a sweat break out between his shoulder blades at the intensity of the scrutiny.   
Dean finishes his beer and slides the bottle away across the bar without breaking eye contact, then in a lowered, sultry voice said:

  
“Yes, Castiel. I guess it got me to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Customary tumblr plug: <http://coffeeandcas.tumblr.com>. Got a fluffy/angsty Destiel prompt? Send it to me and I'll do my best to fill it!


	3. Chapter 3

“So, go on then: share. Is life in the Bible Club all it’s cracked up to be?"

Dean leans against the bar, turned towards Castiel with a slightly wicked smile on his handsome face. He's sipping his drink and watching the priest through narrowed, calculating eyes. Castiel suspects he's deflecting; wanting to dig into Castiel's life rather than linger on the fact that he had spilled his soul in the confessional just a few days previous. His smirk makes Castiel squirm a little under the intensity of it.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Castiel is filled with a sudden, fast-flowing dread as soon as the words leave his mouth. He very badly doesn’t want to tug at this thread; his own thoughts of doubt, inadequacy and confusion are overwhelming enough without sharing them with this handsome stranger. Although, are they really strangers if he knows things about Dean that likely nobody else on earth knows?

“Well, being so close to God and all, I assume you all spend your time congratulating each other on how much good you do and how happy you all are. How you help the poor and needy who are unable to help themselves, and how pure and humble it makes you all feel. Or am I way off the mark?”

"I...yes, yes you are." It comes out as a snap, and Dean raises a sardonic, disbelieving eyebrow in response. He's has hit the nail on the head so accurately that for a second, Castiel is thrown. Did Dean somehow know that those were Castiel's exact feelings? That he and the fellow members of his clergy seemed to spend more time talking about doing good than actually doing it, and the self-satisfied, congratulatory tones to their voices made Castiel's stomach clench unpleasantly with something akin to guilt?

"Am I? Really? You sure about that, Father?"

Dean lounges - there is no other word for it - against the bar, looking Castiel up and down with penetrating eyes. It's as though he's circling prey, and Castiel swallows to relieve his dry mouth. What is this man doing to him? Surely Castiel should have the upper hand, if there was one, since he knew intimate things of the other man's life and Dean knew absolutely nothing about his. How is it that he's the one feeling so off-balance? And the way he said 'Father' - drawled out and sarcastic, as though he knows it's a word ill-fitting on Castiel these days...how did he manage to make it sound so enthralling?

"I..." Castiel tries again, but nothing comes out. Dean's very presence is unnerving him, sending his thoughts spiralling, and he tries to refocus the conversation in the first way that comes to mind. "I help people, Dean, people who are lost and struggling and just need someone to talk to. People who are stuck in a rut not of their own making, or people who are just passing through. People with nowhere else to turn for help, Dean. People like you."

And, as he predicted even as the words left his mouth, Dean's expression darkens. He takes a deep swallow from his drink and slams it onto the bar with more ire than necessary. "People like me, huh? Poor hopeless cases who you feel you can generously help with your noble words? Is that it?"

"No! Dean, no. That's not what I meant at all." Castiel runs his hand through his hair, hassled. Dean's looking at him with narrowed, gleaming eyes, spoiling for a challenge, and Castiel may inadvertently give it to him if he doesn't tread very carefully with his next words. "I don't sit back at the end of the day and congratulate myself for all the differences I've made in the world, Dean. Heck, I don't congratulate myself ever, because it's what any normal person would do: help those in need. It doesn't make me special or noble or anything even close to it." Dean is watching him talk, his eyes focused on Castiel's lips, and the priest's tongue darts out to moisten them unconsciously - a motion not lost on the other man. "I get nothing back from what I give, Dean. Reward of any type isn't why I do it."

"So why do you do it?"

"I..." Castiel falters and stops. The simple answer is that he doesn't know. He doesn't know why he's still clinging on to the church when, as he just admitted to Dean, he gets nothing at all out of it any more.

"Tell me, Castiel. What does your life look like right now?" Dean has another drink in his hand, and is it Castiel's imagination or has he inched closer on his bar stool? "When you finish for the day, when you've said your prayers and your thanks or whatever it is you do, when you go home at night: what does your life look like then?"

Castiel starts to speak, but to his horror the word sticks in his throat and his eyes cloud with tears which he hastily blinks back. The word he was about to say was 'empty' - it was reactive and without thought, and it shocks him to his core. He has known for a while he has very little in his life, but to admit it in such a conversation as this? In a bar with a stranger who he knows the very heart and soul of? Castiel is jarred, emotional, and struggles for words. When he doesn't find an answer, Dean gives him a deep, intimate, appraising look and this time he definitely moves close.

“I thought as much. You spend your days saving other people, and your nights alone with your thoughts, your fears, and your own doubts about the meaning of it all. Am I close?" Dean's voice is melted caramel, his eyes drawing Castiel in so he can flounder and drown in their depth, and all he can do is nod helplessly. "And at the end of it all? When you've spent your whole life saving other people and finally take a step back to let your own life begin? Who will be there for you then, Castiel? Who will be there to save you?”

  
Castiel can't answer. He should answer ‘God, my faith is all I need’, but the words won't come. His throat is constricted, and he feels like if he tries to talk he might start to cry. The way this man, Dean, is looking at him…it's as if he can see into Castiel’s soul.

  
They're face-to-face now, and Dean's abandoned his drink in favour of running his hands up Castiel's arms until they rest gently on his bicep. Castiel swears he can hear his own heart beating in time with the other man's. The music in the bar has faded away, the other patrons have sunk into the distance: all that exists now is Dean and Castiel and the slowly-closing gap between them.

  
"If you could, would you save me too, Castiel?" Dean whispers it in a sultry voice, and Castiel unconsciously leans in and nods slowly. He's transfixed by the look in Dean's glittering eyes.

  
“It's a wonderful thing to have faith, Castiel. I admire you, I really do; I wish I had faith. But don't let it define you. Don't let it stop you from being who you really are.” Dean is leaning in close now; Castiel can smell the liquor on his breath, the leather of his jacket, and the innate scent of him: gun oil and spiced vanilla. They are so close that it would only take a gentle movement from each of them to press their lips together. Castiel, afraid of what he could be about to do, let's his eyes fall closed as Dean’s voice washes over him. “Don't let it stop you from being who you could be.”

And then it's happening. Dean’s hands ghost up to cup his jaw, feather light against his day-old stubble, and angle his head up just right. Then their lips meet, and it's the sweetest, softest, most intimate kiss Castiel can ever remember experiencing. Dean pours every inch of himself into the kiss, keeping his lips closed against Castiel’s but pressing just a little deeper and the priest swears he lets out a timid, breathy moan. Dean pulls back for just a second, just far enough to whisper ‘goodbye, Cas,’ against Castiel’s mouth then, after another chaste press of lips so fleeting that it could have been imaginary, Dean pulls away fully. Castiel keeps his eyes closed, chases Dean’s kiss for just a second, and feels the loss as the other man backs away. He doesn't dare open his eyes. His lips are tingling and warm and his whole body feels alive with something unrecognisable. If he opens his eyes, he will either beg Dean to stay - which he cannot do - or beg Dean to take him with him: which Castiel should not do.

...should he?

Dean’s words have hit every raw nerve ending, reinforced every worry and doubt Castiel has been harbouring in recent months; that his faith is suffocating him, beginning to feel hollow and forced, and that he could put his time and efforts to better use out on the street, actually helping people and seeing results. Because, let’s be frank, God hasn’t provided very many reliable results. If he went with Dean, perhaps he could be of some use. Perhaps he could help heal the young man who was in such obvious pain, and somehow be of use to his ailing brother at the same time. Would Dean welcome his company? Could he really abandon the church? His faith? Was it really abandoning his faith if he did what he so often told others to do and follow his heart? There was only one way to know.

Castiel’s eyes snap open, and he’s up and off his barstool and out of the door before he really releases he’s moving. The cold sweeps around him, a flurry of snowflakes momentarily blinding as he casts around in the dark, crowded street for Dean. People push past him, laughing and merry, ready for an evening out, and every face he sees is unfamiliar. He calls Dean’s name, casting left and right for the young man in the leather jacket with devastatingly beautiful eyes and an aching soul. And it takes a moment before realisation, followed by a deep drag of resignation, settles upon him as he admits the reality to himself.

Dean is gone.

Dejected and, for some reason, on the verge of tears, Castiel pushes the door to the bar open and walks morosely back to his seat. His skin is chilled from the cold and he rubs his palms together vigorously to generate some heat, fighting back the burning behind his eyes and pretending to himself that it was just down to the bitterness outside. He reaches for his drink and, as he lifts it to his lips, notices a piece of white paper stuck to the bottom of the perspiring glass. He peels it away, hands shaking with anticipation, and reads the hastily scribbled words that preface a stream of digits, with his heart in his throat. When he finishes, his cheeks are damp with tears, and his lips curved with the ghost of a smile.

'Cas - profound bonds like this only come along once in a millennium. When that dog collar of yours becomes too tight, give me a call. Maybe together, we can save us both. - Yours already, Dean' 

**Author's Note:**

> Customary tumblr plug: <http://coffeeandcas.tumblr.com>. If you have a fluffy/angsty Destiel prompt in mind, send it my way and I'll see what I can do!


End file.
